I didn’t see her because dragonfly wings are translucent. I never looked for her, because during the day, phosphorescence isn’t visible to the naked eye. My dreams couldn’t conjure the tangle of her thick ropey umbilicus that connected to my navel. 

Like all children, my fingers explored the tattoo of belly button on soft belly. I mean, we all have one, right? Suspended curiosity followed me over the years. Eyes closed. Roots disturbed by invisible claws shaking off the dirt of evidence. This is the inheritance passed down to adoptees within a hybrid system eager to control our peripheral field.

Long in the habit of not looking for clues, still I found myself gazing over my shoulder. Running from myself because I didn’t add up to a whole person. I’m not sure what I was looking for, but I do know that an oceanic wildness surged. Time and again I drank fragmented shards of poison. I sought blindfolds, undone by revolving beds. I didn’t see my own genetic destruction. I had no awareness of how closely I followed in her footsteps and I never saw her looking for me. 

But in my forties, I was shaken awake by a seismic call and response. Mother tree crying out to her seedlings, branches rustling across time and space. Where are you? Where are you? I’ve been looking for you. And I sang out. I’m over here. Right here. Where are you? Then I gathered my courage and followed the well-worn path of all adoptees in search of their family trees. But I was too late. She was already gone, transformed into a nurse log. Still, I called out. Wait. Do I belong to your roots? I’m here now.